by Colt, K. J.
With that, she spun and flew southward, leaving only a wake of smoke.
Tanin stood before his father, arms hanging at his sides, his cheeks flushed. He cleared his throat and clasped Jeid’s shoulder.
“I’ll look after her,” he said, voice hoarse. “I won’t torment her much. I—“
His voice choked and he seemed ready to shed tears. With a silent nod, the young man shifted too. He rose into the air, a red dragon, and flew off, calling his sister’s name.
Jeid grunted and was about to shift too, to fly after them and drag them home, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Let them go, my son.” The voice was deep and soft, a voice like waves on sand, like water in the deep. “Let them be.”
Jeid spun around, fists clenched, to see his own father.
At seventy years of age, Eranor still stood straight, his shoulders squared. His long white hair and beard flowed down to his waist. His glittering blue eyes stared from under bushy, snowy eyebrows. He still wore his old druid robes, blue wool hemmed in silver, and he bore a staff made from a twisting oak root. Upon its top, clutched within wooden fingers, shone a blue crystal the size of a heart. Eranor, once a healer and sage in their town, had been banished with the rest of his family—the first among them to find the magic, to shift into a dragon . . . and to call it a gift.
“They—“ For a moment, Jeid chocked on his words. “Those scoundrels are—“
“I know.” Eranor smiled sadly and patted his son’s shoulder. “They spoke to me of leaving. I gave them my blessing.”
“You what? Father! How could you do this?” Jeid felt his face flush. He swung his axe through the air, bellowed wordlessly, and kicked leaves and rocks. “I will kill them. Why would they not come to me first, why—“
“Because they’re frightened of you.” Eranor swung his staff, knocking down the axe. “They don’t call you Grizzly only because of your shaggy hair and beard. You terrify the poor things.”
“Those poor things should be terrified. I’m flying after them now, and when I catch them, I—“
“Jeid, come with me.” Eranor clasped his son’s arm, holding him in place. “Come to the watchtower.”
Jeid tossed down his axe with a grunt; it vanished into the fallen leaves. Huffing, he followed his father. They tramped between the trees, approaching the pillar of stone. It rose narrow and tall, a shard like a tower, a remnant of the ancient calamity that had fallen upon this land. Countless years ago, the druids said, half the world plunged down like a sinking loaf of bread, creating the escarpment—a great shelf of stone that ran into the horizon. When the land had collapsed, boulders fell, the canyon gaped open, and the watchtower rose from the earth like a blade. Jeid and his father climbed the stone pillar now. The top was barely wide enough for two; they stood pressed together.
Here was the highest point of the escarpment. Standing here, Jeid could see the land slope down before him, finally reaching treed hills and valleys; beyond them flowed the River Ranin. Upon the horizon, he could just make out pillars of smoke—the cooking fires of Oldforge. To his right, a waterfall crashed down the escarpment, feeding a stream.
Eranor gestured at the scenery. The wind whipped his beard and fluttered his wide sleeves. “The world.”
“Yes, Father, I know what the world is.”
“But your children do not.” Eranor smiled sadly. “You have traveled far and wide and seen many lands. They have never gone south of the River Ranin.”
The old druid turned around and pointed down. The canyon stretched beneath them, mossy boulders piled up in its depths. Vines and roots covered its walls. Several caves gaped open, leading to a network of tunnels and caverns.
“This canyon is a safe place,” Jeid said, his voice still gruff. “I built a new home for us here. Even my brother fears this place. Here is our fortress. Here we are safe behind walls of stone, safe to blow fire from caves upon any roc that might attack.”
He gestured around him. To a random traveler, the canyon would seem like nothing but a natural collapse of nature, a sculpture all of stone, wood, and moss. But Jeid saw a fort. Pillars of stone thrust up—watchtowers. Caves lined the canyon walls—secret holes for blasting flame. Boulders rose and fell like walls, some balanced upon one another—traps to crush invaders. In the wilderness, arrows could slay them. In the skies, rocs could hunt them. Here was safety. Here was survival.
“Aye,” said Eranor, stroking his white beard. “It’s a safe place for weary travelers such as you and me. But for Tanin and Maev . . . they need to believe there is more. They need to believe there is hope, that there are others like us.”
Jeid lowered his head. The wind fluttered his hair around his face. He winced to remember flying back to Oldforge only days ago—of Ciana betraying him, of the poisoned arrows thrusting into him. His wounds still stung, but worse was the pain inside him.
“Are there more, Father?” he said softly. “I told them that other dragons fly. I told them we can build a tribe, a tribe called Requiem. I told them tales to comfort them—when they were young, afraid, banished. I told them that our family is not diseased, that we carry a gift, that others in the world are like us.” He raised his eyes and stared at his father. “I told them the stories you told me when I was young. But I lied. And you lied.”
Eranor raised his eyebrows. “Lied, did I? Look at your shield, Jeid. Look at the shield that you yourself forged.”
With a grunt, Jeid slung the shield off his back. The bronze disk was inlaid with silver stars, forming a dragon-shaped constellation. Those same stars shone in the sky every night.
“Simple stars,” Jeid said. “A coincidence.”
Eranor shook his head. “You were born seeing those stars at night. But when I was young, the Draco constellation did not shine.” Eranor’s eyes watered. “A great gift has come to the world—the gift of magic, of dragons. I do not believe that it blessed only our family. In villages and wandering tribes, they speak of others—others who were hunted, caught, killed. Zerra hunts them; so do other tribes. But some must have escaped. Some must have survived. Your children need to believe this . . . and so do I. Even their old grandfather, white-haired and frail, must cling to some hope. Requiem might be a dream, but let us live that dream.”
Jeid slung the shield across his back again. “You are many years away from being frail, Father. And I wish I could believe too. But since . . . since they died . . .” His voice choked.
Eranor nodded and lowered his head, and his white beard cascaded like a waterfall. “I miss them too. As the stars blessed us with magic, so do they harbor the souls of our departed. Your wife and daughter look down upon you. And they are proud of you.”
Another story, Jeid thought. Another comforting fairy tale.
He wanted to believe, wanted to hope too, but Jeid could not. Hope led to despair.
He climbed down the pillar of stone. He entered his small cave in the canyon. He opened his wooden chest, pulled out Requiem’s old coat, and held the soft cotton against his cheek until darkness fell.
LAIRA
IN THE COLD AUTUMN MORNING, fog cloaking the camp and crows peering from naked trees, Laira stood tied to a stake, awaiting her death in fire.
The Goldtusk tribe gathered around the pyre, watching her, five hundred souls. They wore mammoth, wolf, and deer fur, and their strings of bone and clay beads hung around their necks and arms. Mist floated between them and their breath frosted. The tribe’s totem pole rose behind upon a hillock, the gilded mammoth tusk upon its crest all but hidden in the fog. The rocs stood tethered to the pole, scratching the earth and cawing, anxious for a meal; the birds had seen enough burnings to know they would soon feast upon charred flesh.
Branches, straw, and twigs rose in a pile beneath Laira’s feet. She watched a grub crawl down a birch branch, only for a robin to land, suck it up, and fly off. Strangely, the sight almost comforted to her.
I will burn. I will scream. I will rise to my mother. B
ut the world will go on. Birds will fly, grubs will die, the leaves will fall and bud again. Maybe I’m as small and meaningless as that grub.
Zerra came walking through the crowd, heading toward her, holding a torch. A cruel smile twisted his features, lipless on the burnt half of his face. His fur cloak billowed in the wind, revealing his bronze sword—the most precious weapon in their tribe. When he reached her, he held his torch close, and the heat and smoke stung Laira and invaded her nostrils. She grimaced.
“Aye, you were a sweet one in my bed.” Drool dripped down his chin and he grabbed his groin. “It’s almost a shame to burn you. You were as hot and smooth as your mother was. I claimed her too, did you know? Your father abandoned her for me to take.” He smirked. “Mother and daughter—both mine to bed and burn.”
Laira found rage filling her, overflowing her moment of stoicism.
“You lie!” She spat on his face. “My father is a great warrior-prince across the sea. He is stronger than you, and his sword is wider and longer. My mother was just as strong. She never submitted to you as I did. You will forever bear the mark of her strength upon your ravaged face.”
Slowly, he wiped the spit off. His hand wet with her saliva, he struck her. The blow snapped Laira’s head to the side, rattling her teeth, searing her with white light. The torch crackled only inches from her, only heartbeats away from igniting the pyre.
“Half my body is burnt,” Zerra said. “I think that, after I’ve burned all of yours, I will pull you from the flames. I will keep you half-alive, writhing and begging for death. I will heal you. For long moons, you will scream in your tent, and we will apply ointments, bandages, prayers . . . then burn you again, only to repeat the cycle. I wonder how many burnings you will survive. I will try to make it many. You will end up envying your mother.”
Laira grimaced as the torch drew nearer, singing her cheek, and her heart thrashed. She gritted her teeth.
No. I will not give up. I will fight even as the fire blazes.
She gave the ropes binding her a mighty tug. But they only chafed her wrists, keeping her arms tied behind her to the stake. She tried to kick, but the ropes dug into her ankles, and blood trickled onto her bare feet.
“Yes, struggle for me.” Zerra leaned forward and licked her cheek. He brought the ravaged half of his face near her eyes. “Look at my scars, child. Soon all your body will look like this.”
Laira sucked in breath, chest shaking.
Use your curse. Use your disease. She ground her teeth. Use your magic.
She shut her eyes, trying to ignore the pain, to focus, to calm herself and find that inner power. At first it evaded her. The magic lurked deep inside, fleeing from her mental grasp like a mouse fleeing from reaching hands.
Zerra stepped back and raised his torch. “For the glory of Ka’altei!” he shouted. “We will burn the reptile! Shaman of Goldtusk, will you bless my fire?”
Concentrate, Laira. Grab your magic.
Shedah, the crone, stepped forward. Strings of human finger bones rattled, hanging around her neck. Among them hung the silver amulet of Taal—the amulet of Laira’s fallen mother, now the crone’s prize. The wizened old thing, frail and covered in warts, raised her staff. The painted skull of an ape grinned atop it.
“I name her a cursed thing!” cried the shaman, voice shrill.
Laira reached down deep inside her. She found that secret pool and fished out the warm strands.
The magic flowed through her.
Ahead, Shedah reached into her leather pouch, pulled out blue powder, and tossed it onto Zerra’s torch. The powder ignited, spewing orange smoke, and Zerra raised the flame high.
“The fire is blessed with the seed of Ka’altei!” he announced. “The reptile will forever blaze in his halls of retribution.”
Scales flowed across Laira’s body.
Wings emerged from her back.
Fangs grew from her gums and her fingers lengthened into claws.
Fly!
As her body ballooned, the ropes dug into her growing ankles and wrists, cutting into flesh, and Laira yowled. If she kept growing, the ropes would sever her feet and hands.
I still must shift, she thought as Zerra approached. I still must fly, even without hands and feet. I—
The ropes dug deeper, and the agony overwhelmed her, knocking the magic from her grasp.
The scales, wings, and fangs vanished. She shrank into a woman again, hanging limply from the stake.
With a thin smile, Zerra tossed the torch onto the pyre.
The kindling caught fire, and heat bathed Laira, and she screamed. The flames raced up the pile of wood, branch by branch, heading toward her feet.
What do I do? Dragon stars, what do I do?
She screamed and tugged at her bonds again. She reached for her magic but no longer found it. The fire licked her toes and she screamed. Through the haze of smoke and crackling flame, she saw the tribesmen cheer. Behind them the rocs fluttered madly, snapping their beaks, awaiting their meal. Tears filled Laira’s eyes. She could barely see through the heat, and the world swayed.
“Neiva!” she shouted and managed a high whistle. “Neiva, to me!”
The smoke blinded her and filled her mouth. The fire seared her feet.
“Neiva, please!”
She opened her eyes to slits. The smoke billowed. The flames blazed. Through the inferno, she saw wings flapping, talons reaching out, yellow eyes gleaming. She had ridden this animal only once, had bonded with Neiva for only a day, yet today she was her roc, bound to Laira with fire—and now her roc reached into the flames. Talons closed around the stake, tugging, lifting the bole out of the flaming pyre. Laira’s feet rose from the blaze.
“Fly, Neiva! Fly north. Fly!”
Laira’s eyes rolled back. She blinked, forcing herself to regain consciousness. The world spun around her. Wings beat and the oily, rancid stench of the roc filled her nostrils, and it was beautiful to her, the sweetest thing she’d ever smelled. When she looked down, she saw the pyre consumed with flame. The tribesmen were scurrying below and leaping onto their own rocs.
“To the forest, Neiva!” Laira shouted. If she still had any chance, it lay among those trees.
She was still tied to the stake, trussed up and charred and bruised, a bit of meat on a skewer. She felt so weak she could just slip into endless sleep. She ground her teeth, bit down on her cheek, and forced herself to remain awake.
“I will not die,” she hissed, fists clenched behind the stake she was tied to. “I will not give up. I will fight this until my very last drop of strength, and then I will fight some more.”
The roc flew, shrieking, holding the stake in her talons. They glided toward the forest, a hundred rocs shrieking and chasing behind them.
The grassy hills rolled below, speckled with boulders and scattered elm trees. Mist hung in the valleys, deer ran along a riverbank, and a forest of oaks, maples, and birches sprawled in the north. Neiva flew toward those woods now, descended above the canopy, and screeched.
“Through the trees!” Laira said. “Land among them.”
The roc hesitated. Clutching the stake in both talons, Neiva seemed unable to land; the canopy was too thick. With her talons free, perhaps Neiva could have parted the branches, but now she merely hovered above the trees, holding the stake. When Laira twisted her head, she saw the other rocs chasing, and their riders fired arrows.
“Drop me!” Laira cried. “Do it!”
Neiva tossed back her head, her beak opened wide, and she cried out, the sound so loud Laira thought her eardrums might snap. The roc’s talons opened and the stake—Laira tied to it—tumbled down.
Laira screamed as she crashed through the canopy, snapping branches and scattering leaves. For an instant she fell through open air. The stake hit a branch, tilted, and straightened vertically; her feet faced the ground. Then, with a thud that rattled her teeth and spine, the stake slammed into the forest floor.
Laira cried out in pain,
sure that her bones had shattered. Every segment in her back seemed to knock against another. She couldn’t even breathe. She tried to gasp for breath when the stake tilted forward. She winced, tugging at her bonds . . . and slammed facedown into the dirt. The stake landed on her back, creaking against her spine, driving her deep into the mud. Soil filled her mouth, nostrils, and eyes.
For a moment, Laira only lay still. She saw nothing but stars floating across blackness. She didn’t know if she was alive or dead. The smell of soil, worms, and blood filled her nostrils. The pain throbbed, but it felt distant, dulled. She was floating away.
No.
Her fingers curled inward.
No. Fight. Get up. Move.
Somewhere above, a hundred rocs shrieked, and hunters cried out.
Get up! spoke the voice inside her. Move! Run!
She growled, pushed down her shoulders, and screamed into the mud.
Her face rose from the soil, and she sucked in breath, choking on dirt and leaves. She spat. The weight of the stake pushed down on her back. She wanted to cry for Neiva again, but dared not make a sound; the hunters would hear. Somewhere ahead, she heard trumpeting and thumping feet—mammoths running among the trees. Briefly she wondered if these were the same mammoths she had tried to hunt only days ago. Now she was the hunted.
I’m burned. I’m broken. I’m bruised. I’m bound to a wooden stake that crushes me and I cannot move. I will die here.
She gritted her teeth, gulping down the despair.
So I will die fighting.
With a growl, she pushed down her knees and tugged mightily at her bonds. The ropes dug into her again, but she found that her wrists slid a short distance up the stake.
Hope kindled inside her. She could not break her bonds, but with the stake lying flat above her, perhaps she could sling her wrists and legs above its top. She would still be tied but free of the stake; she would be able to crawl, maybe even hop, forward.
